


Postcards from the Scorching Wastes: The Night Dagger, Lower Hwen

by fewlmewn



Series: Original Stories [9]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Drow, Gen, Homebrew Content, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 06:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fewlmewn/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: Part 1 of 'Postcards from the Scorching Wastes', windows on the lives of people of Emera, their traditions, customs and stories.In the Night Dagger, a seedy lounge in Lower Hwen, we meet Nadmyrr “Nightmare” Auvryrien, resident performer, hustler and alcoholic.





	Postcards from the Scorching Wastes: The Night Dagger, Lower Hwen

Faint candle-light quivers inside rose-tinged jars, hanging from the ceiling. The pale blush from the fires is instantly swallowed by yards of velvet curtains, deep blue and black. The place looks somber, far darker than it has any right to be at this time of night, but when you’re underground it doesn’t really matter.

Rows of round tables follow the length of the establishment, a narrow affair squeezed between a carpet merchant and a pawn shop. There’s a hole in the wall at the end of the room, behind a gaudy tapestry, where people go to fence stolen things. A couple of local kids have had the guts to try and sell a rug from next door to the pawnbroker one time; it didn’t end well.

The door opens once, twice, for just a couple of seconds, and two lone customers sit on opposite ends of the bar. The barkeep darts his eyes between the men, his lightning-fast instincts telling him in a split second to serve the tall, lanky guy with a fur coat, first. It wouldn’t be the first time a fight breaks out because of something like this. People coming to this type of establishment have a problem with pride.

The door opens again, I’m not even looking anymore, but it stays open for longer. The night drift from the sandstorm raging above our heads is sneaking into the city, making alleys and streets whistle and howl like wolves. I feel the breath of wind moving through the room and the hundreds of tin figurines hanging from the ceiling clink and jingle bright and clear. The little dagger-shaped cut-outs reflect the candle-light, and the stuffy box we’re in comes alive with a thousand crystal-like sparks.

Then, the door slams shut, and the man sitting closest to it lets out a muttered curse. It’s way too early to start a racket.

The barkeep and I turn to see a bright-skinned traveller, clad in desert attire – high boots, pale linen everywhere and a bizarre-looking straw hat. Their face is partially covered by a thick veil, most likely to protect the nose and mouth from the sandstorm. All I see is light bronze skin and even lighter eyes. Pale as the dawn sky.

The traveller is wheezing like they’ve just ran a mile, and they’re not budging from the door frame. At some point, the same fur wearing patron clears his throat, but before he can speak up, the traveller undoes their veil and we all gasp at the sight of their lower face. Not only is the skin there white as moon light, but the entire jaw looks like it’s been chewed up and spit out again. Scarred tissue and spider-web lines span the entire jawbone, the mouth has no lips to speak of, and is just a slightly redder line above the mess of scars.

A voice pries into our thoughts, I don’t know how else to explain it. I know I haven’t heard anything, not really, but at the same time I’m aware that the slurred voice is entering all of our minds at once.

“Is this the Night Dagger?” We all nod, mouths agape. “I’m looking for Nadmyrr.”

Fuck.


End file.
